Special Kind of People
by PopcornBird221
Summary: A brief insight into the minds of a special kind of reporter and a special kind of hacker. Based on The Girl Who Played With Fire.
1. Chapter 1

To say that Lisbeth Salander was a peculiar girl was an understatement. A gothic sense of style, a body littered with tattoos (nine, recently turning eight to be precise) and, on top of that, paired with a most antisocial personality, it could most definitely be said that she was the kind of girl most mothers fear their sons bringing home.

However, if one were to actually probe the girl and miraculously get her to open up about her life, one would find themselves in utter awe and admiration of the girl. She was the type of person that was hard to love and hard to be loved by, but once won over, would most likely end up saving your life. Nobody knows this as well as Mikael ¨Kalle¨ Blomkvist.

It is easy to argue that Mikael probably understands Lisbeth best. Being relatively the only man who has spent a large amount of time in her presence, it could be easy to see how they have a special connection. If things were to be asked, the other two men she most recently associated with was her guardian who will never speak to her again in fear of his life and her side wing technician, who only knew her as Wasp and she only knew as Plague. However, if one were to take things further and say that Blomkvist actually understands her and who she is as a person, they would be making a most severe assumption.

It was not until recently that Blomkvist realized how little he understood about Lisbeth.

It began when he was making one of his periodic visits to her apartment, wondering where on earth she had disappeared to. By now, it had become nearly routine, to knock and be rejected when there was no answer on the other side of the metal door. Yet, this time, it was a bit different. He was about to knock when Salander herself came marching up the stairs. Despite all they had been through, her eyes showed no sort of affection or friendliness that most people showed when looking upon a close friend. Blomkvist, at first, was not surprised as he had long since come the valid conclusion that Salander was most definitely not most people. Yet, he was startled when she spoke with a hostile, explaining she didn't want to speak to him ever again. After the initial shock, he wasn't terribly surprised when she refused to respond or react to any sort of attempt of communication after that.

A few weeks later, while traveling by train, he swore he saw her again, just as the train doors began to shut, And as he looked directly her, she looked directly back, if not completely through him as if he occupied a vacant seat. Not a hint of recognition shone in her eyes, and as the train began to move and she became lost from his sight, he began to question his vision and whether or not he imagined her being there at all. That evening, he decided, it was most definitely her and he had not imagined anything at all. She really just was that hostile towards him now.

Staring at the blanks wall space above his bed, his mind began to drift, wondering if he has in fact offended her in some way, or at the least triggered such hostility from the girl he thought he knew. The last time he remembered actually doing so was over a year ago in the small cabin in Norsojö, solving a case for the large capitalist Henrik Vanger. He recalled the event in question with ease, as it had become one of the small things that showed him who Lisbeth really was.

All he asked was a really simple question.

¨How did you learn how to hack?¨

As if she began another person suddenly, her body became rigid and her quick hands stopped working upon worn keyboard beneath her fingers. With tight lips, she said goodnight and resigned for the night, leaving him wondering what on earth he did.

That was perhaps one of his less favorite memories of Lisbeth, as it confused him and, well, made him feel rather guilty. When asked to focus on the girl he thought of so much, he would much rather think of the last time he saw her before she turned upon him a cold shoulder.

She had spent Christmas with him in a cabin in Sandhamn and, as he perceived it, they had a wonderful time. Parting two days afterwards, he had made several attempts to contact her. It was not until after he finally got in contact with her that he understood she no longer found pleasure in his company. It was in that order that Blomkvist found himself very, very confused.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, visions of Salander's face swimming through his head and possible, yet hardly feasible, reasons for her disregard of him conjuring even more absurd reasons. It was with these thoughts that he slowly fell into an uneasy slumber as miles away, Salander walked the shores of Granada, not a thought being given to the confused reporter.


	2. Chapter 2

Lisbeth Salander did a lot of her time thinking. Her thoughts were broad and often times grim, yet if one were to open Lisbeth's mind, they would be surprised to find that, even in the privacy of her mind, she had distanced herself from the extensive people and concepts she often prodded with her massive intellect.

Such were these thoughts that clouded her cool mind on a late Saturday evening, not long after she got back from her global trip.

It was not long after Salander lay her head on her new pillows that she realized she was not in fact going to sleep at all that night. Every time her weary eyes found themselves slowly shutting, luring her and tempting her with a long blissful sleep, she would be gutted with guilty as their face flowed to the surface of her memories and her conscience.

Bland, Armansky, Mimmi, and even, strangely, Blomkvist, appeared in the dark of her eyelids that covered her exhausted eyes. She'd begun to feel this a lot, lately, the pangs of guilt which overtook her so painfully.

She never even took the time to say a final farewell to Bland, though that may have easily been the first and only time she would make his acquaintance.

She had never said goodbye to Mimmi, or Armansky either, when she took off from Stockholm almost over a whole year ago. Mimmi, the lemon girl who she was drunk enough to pick up in a bar, the lemon girl who was apparently drunk enough to let her and Armansky, the man who was the opposite of everything she associated with Nils Bjurman.

And then there was Mikael Blomkvist. Reporter, big time face in the media, and fucking womanizer. Salander has lived with him for several months in a small cabin out in Norsjo while hunting for a serial killer under Henrik Vanger a while back. While realistically, it had only been a few years ago, to Salander, it felt like lifetimes. It was long before she had even imagined being in possession of over 3 billion Kroner and McDonalds was a good meal every night.

With a deep breath, Salander shut her heavy eyes and behind them was the burning image the Granada beach behind them. The coconut was in her sights and approaching her was the lovely boy she immediately recognized her tropical lover, George Bland. Salander fell into a peaceful sleep which she happily didn't wake up from until noon the next day. Once her eyes opened again, she was hit with the same guilty pang and immediately wished to go back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Salander was breathing heavily as she stumbled back to her car. She was generally unharmed as her small body moved quickly like thin branches of wood that sashayed easily in the trees. Her narrow body made her almost aerodynamic, with an almost eerie ability to escape whatever dangers may come her way.

Even so, the sudden attack that night had shook her up. A quick trip to Mimmi's was all she had in plan that night but yet, like the rest of Salander's life, nothing seemed to be able to function according to plan.

She recalled with some satisfaction how she had broken her attackers face pretty badly. It would be difficult for him to heal that up without some medical attention.

An average person with her skills might have considered paying close attention to patients at nearby hospitals to check for anyone that came in with a cut similar to the ones she inflicted. However, possibly in hindsight, an average person would be completely incapable of possessing the skills she did. Salander was, undoubtedly, a most extraordinary person, with a most extraordinary skill set, and well equipped with a most extraordinary mind.

When her mind had finally sunk into a sort of blissful numbness, another puzzle piece the just the incident prior had surfaced to the forefront of Salander's mind. Another damn mystery piece.

Mikael Blomkvist. Reporter, journalist, and with an apparent professional career of being nosy. What the hell had he been doing and what the hell was Salander's luck when he just happened to keep appearing when and where he wasn't wanted. With a brief thought which Salander exterminated quickly, she wondered if he was okay as she had heard him let out a cry of pain during the fight.

For someone she had promised to keep out her mind, he sure seemed to occupy it a lot.

With quivering hands, Salander checked her body and with a hiss of annoyance, she realized she had probably dropped her keys in the fight or when she was running. Her adrenaline was dropping rapidly and in replacement of it, exhaustion began to weigh down her sore limbs. She looked into the distance, wondering how long it would take her to walk back to her own apartment. She estimated over an hour, something she sincerely doubted her body could withstand in this state of health.

She looked upwards with a resigned glance at her old apartment that she hated so much on Lundergarten, comforted mildly by the idea that her lovely and probably naked Mimmi was up there currently, probably fast asleep.

Salander suddenly felt an odd feeling over take her. With a sickening realization, she recognized it abruptly as fear. It was paralyzing, this ice laced with fire that seemed to freeze but also simultaneously burning her body from the inside out. The intensely frigid Swedish air whipped around her thin legs, only amplifying the sensation and, for a brief second, Salander had never felt so scared.

Decisively, she marched back upstairs to her old apartment, having to explain to her lover that she was mugged of her bag and car keys so she's be spending the night there. Mimmi was more than happy to give the girl a place to stay for the night, especially if it were right next to her.


	4. Chapter 4

Mikael Blomkvist was completely shaken. He was vomiting horrifically and endlessly. More was coming out then was coming in, causing him to retch painfully.

He looked wearily ahead, but even still, he could see her blasted face, burned on his eyes. He wanted to scream, overwhelmed and shaken by everything that had happened that night.

In the back of his mind, Blomkvist cradled a sinister thought that was slowly easing its way to the forefront of his mind. Before he knew it, it was all he could think about, for days, plaguing everything else in his mind.

What if he had just gotten there a little sooner? What if he hadn't argued so much? Maybe if they were just a little sooner, just a little. Maybe, maybe, just maybe.

Maybe he could have saved them. At the least, he could have saved Mia.

That was the only thought in his mind for days after he found them, as he sat alone and emotionally empty, while his brain was trying to drown him in thoughts. He sat in silence, even though he could hear screams ringing in his ears from the inside out.

It made him sick.

He vomited a total of 3 times that week.

Blomkvist rarely became like this. With a Swedish upbringing and mindset, it took a lot to upset him emotionally to the point where it became difficult to function.

It became exceedingly difficult to function.

The plague that was taking over his mind filtered out everything that was about Svensson or Mia. They appeared in his dreams, screaming at him for not helping, crying that he didn't make it to them sooner. Sometimes, he had to stand by frozen, watching their lives dry from their bodies and go limp with the occasional twitching.

Still, he could do nothing.

He couldn't close his eyes for sleep. Behind them, he saw all the blood, over and over and over again. When he shut them tighter, he could see their faces when he spoke to them not long before he found them, a cheery dinner over work.

They say there are five stages of grief.

Blomkvist was still in denial.

At the top of the list still, in his last contacts he spoke to, was Svensson's name, when he deleted the hundreds of calls he had ignored from Berger and the rest of people he knew were concerned about his lack of communication.

He didn't want communication.

He wanted peace.

He wanted quiet.

He wanted to know what is was like for them, to be silenced so young and so quickly and, perhaps worse, so insignificantly, their lives snuffed out like mere candles in the wind.

For the first time in his life, Mikael Blomkvist didn't want to be a reporter. He wanted to be a normal civilian, fed the bullshit of the media like the typical citizen and slave of society.

He wanted to go away.


End file.
